


mark me like i'm yours

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, F/M, Hickeys, Making out in cars, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, and this happens, basically sansa asks jon to give her a hickey, sansa is thirsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: Sansa asks Jon to give her a hickey.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 49
Kudos: 246





	mark me like i'm yours

**Author's Note:**

> literally I have no idea where this came from except last night I had an overwhelming need to write this story and stayed up until 2 AM trying to finish it. So uhhh bon apetit and this is in memory of my first hickey as a teenager I guess?

This may be the dirtiest thing she's ever done. 

It's not actually that scandalous, is the thing. Sansa has had a hickey before, once; a red mark over her clavicle that stung when she touched it. Joffrey had given it to her back when they'd first begun seeing one another. He'd been rough, sucking at her skin, gotten bored of it quickly, and it had been over before Sansa realized it happened. She had only seen it the next day, standing in front of her mirror. She hadn't known that there was a bruise at the base of her throat at all, and she'd touched it in a sick, gentle fascination.

It had been easy to cover it up after with foundation, that solitary mark, but Sansa felt it that whole day, burning her skin like a brand. She'd decided, by the end of it, that she liked the feeling. It made her feel like she belonged. 

Still, that had been before she realized that belonging _with_ someone and _to_ someone were not the same thing. Joffrey hadn't known the distinction either. 

It's been ages since then. He hadn't done it again. Joffrey left bruises in other places, after all, and when sophomore year ended, they ended too.

Willas, on the other hand, had been too much of a gentleman to try, to Sansa’s dismay--and she’d had never gotten so far as to actually kiss Harry before Robb hauled off and punched him for touching her ass after a football game. 

It's nothing novel, though, a hickey. She shouldn't be this affected. 

Maybe it's _how_ it's being given to her, though. Jon is on top of her, one hand against the car door and one braced next to her head. His right leg is on the car's floor, his left knee situated between her thighs. 

It can't be comfortable for him, especially not with Sansa twisting under him while he noses at her jaw, lips searching. 

"This okay?" he asks, when he pulls away for a moment. Sansa wishes, sometimes, that he wouldn't ask-- that he'd realize she trusts him enough to listen if she tells him to stop. Other times, she's glad for his check-ins, if only to see in his eyes how much he wants her, how he’ll stop if she asks him to. 

"Yes," she breathes. "Keep going." 

His eyes are dark and _wanting_. It makes Sansa dizzy when he lowers his mouth again, hot on her throat. 

She moans softly, and shifts her legs around his knee. Her cheer skirt has pushed up, but it's already so short that Sansa doesn’t feel uncomfortable with the thought of him seeing what’s underneath. Jon has seen her cartwheeling in it before, so it doesn't really count as him seeing her in her underwear. He's not even looking, too intent in his task. 

Jon is slow, with his mouth. Sansa wouldn't have expected that of him. When she was in ninth grade, she'd seen him kissing Ygritte behind the bleachers, a hard, explosive kiss, and ran back to Robb's car with a giggling Jeyne Poole, breathless and shocked. She expected much of the same from him when they first kissed, but Jon likes being slow and deep and takes his _time_ with their kisses. Sansa thinks he could kiss her for hours and never ask for anything more. 

It's almost too much, the drag of his mouth, the heat of his tongue. When he sucks, Sansa tries her best not to cry out, but a whine escapes anyways. 

Before she realizes, she's rocked against him, and then his knee is pressed _against_ her. Sansa's hands are suddenly too empty-- she needs something to hold on to or she'll burst into flames and then Jon will have to explain to her _mother_ why she'd spontaneously combusted in the backseat of his car and--

Her hands settle in Jon's hair, and she rocks against his knee again, experimentally. She feels his groan in her _body_ when he lets it loose against her throat. 

" _Sansa,"_ he says, although it sounds more like he's swearing, hushed and forbidden and under his breath. 

"Don't stop," she pleads, deliriously lost in the heat and the friction. 

When Jon presses his mouth against her again, it's in a different spot, and this time he uses teeth to tease the edge of her skin. 

She's moving restlessly against him now, hips jerking up and down gracelessly, but he keeps his knee just too far out of reach for her to get good pressure going between her legs. God, she _wants_ him, she wants Jon so badly that it hurts. She wants him to touch her and crawl inside of her and never leave her--

A half-sob tears its way from her chest, and Sansa twists her hands in Jon's hair. By his hiss, it must hurt, but he doesn't pull her away. If anything, he stays where he is, licks away the sweat on her skin, nips softly at the lowest point he can find without taking her cheer uniform’s top off, at the beginning of the swell of her breast. 

Sansa feels too much and not enough. The cold air where Jon isn't touching her, the searing heat where he is. A seat belt buckle is pressing into her back, and she can hear the rain pattering against the roof of the car. Between the silence, her gasps, and the rustling of clothes as she strains to rub against Jon's knee. 

The drag of his tongue is over her pulse, now. A slow, maddening counterpoint to the blood rushing and roaring in her ears. She whimpers, hears Jon laugh softly, a huff of breath against her wet skin. 

"Jon, _please,_ " she begs, wrecked. _Please what?_ She couldn't answer if she tried. 

He shifts his knee up and-- _oh._ For a moment, the world is _glorious._ For a moment, the pressure is just right-- Sansa might shatter into a million pieces happily. And then, as quickly as he'd granted her wish, Jon takes it away. He drops his hand from the car door to Sansa's hip, holding it in place. 

Sansa cries out, and still, he focuses on marking her skin. Jon's never going to let her come. Sansa lives in an orgasmless world now. She has to accept that. 

With his elbow braced besides her head, Jon tangles his hand in Sansa's hair, pulls it gently until she turns her head and he has access right under her jaw. 

Sansa is dimly aware of the fact that she's spouting what must be nonsense. Nothing is coherent except _yes, God, Jon_ and the word _please_ , but she can't seem to stop talking. 

Everything narrows down to his mouth and the pressure and the gentle tug of his fingers in Sansa's hair. 

She’s peripherally aware of Jon’s hand sliding under her ass, lifting her hips and guiding them against him. It’s slower than she’d been grinding against him before, and it’s the perfect torture. Sansa can _feel_ it all, and it’s too much, it’s not _enough,_ she needs _more._..

Breathless and gasping, Sansa comes. The noise that comes out of her throat is half groan, half whimper. She thinks she sees _stars._

Her legs are still shaking when she comes back to earth. It’s lovely, the post-orgasm haze she gets when she’s with Jon, when he works her up slowly and builds her to a release. She’s not all there for a few minutes after she comes, and in a dim, faraway sense she feels like she’s floating. She pets his hair languidly while he finishes sucking the last mark into her neck.

“Good?” he asks, when he pulls away. It’s dark and raining hard outside, but Sansa can see how blown his eyes are, and when he shifts, she feels his erection against her leg.

It feels nice to float outside herself. It feels nice to know that Jon took care of her first, when it’s clear that he’s been just as affected as she is. Sansa never knew how selfless Jon was until they started sneaking around.

“Perfect,” Sansa tells him, giving Jon what must be a blissed-out smile. “So good. I felt that in my toes.”

Jon grins, the smile of a teenage boy who is utterly pleased with himself. “Your toes, huh?”

If she had any blood left in her face, Sansa would be blushing. “Shut up,” she mumbles, but she’s smiling too. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I know, I know,” Jon assures her, still appropriately smug. Then he pulls back to his knees. Sansa keens at the loss of him, even as she lets go.

“What about you?” she asks. 

But Jon just shakes his head, and stares. She’s self conscious for a moment, until she realizes he’s staring at her throat.

“How do I look?” Sansa tilts her head back, so he can see better. She likes the hungry look in his eyes. Jon is usually so controlled around her at school, good at masking his expressions. It’s nice to see how much he wants her. 

“Like--” he clears his throat, rubs the back of his head. She realizes that he’s embarrassed, feels a spike of pleasure at having done that to him. “You look good. I… I’ve never seen you look like this before, with your skin…marked.” 

Sansa feels soft in a way she can’t quantify, and maybe that’s why she takes his hand. “I can do you, now. If you want.”

Jon looks tempted. She thinks he might say yes, but then his eyes flutter shut. “The rain is stopping. Your parent will wonder what’s keeping you.”

“The minute they see me walk through the door, they’ll get their answer,” Sansa says wryly. Her other hand strays to her throat, fingering at the hickeys. They tingle under her skin. When she presses on one, she feels dazed. 

Jon leans down, kisses her softly. She’s pressing against him by the time he pulls away, hand twisted in his. “You can get me next time,” he promises, though she can tell it costs him. “Your brother will kill me if you’re not home soon.”

“You won’t even make it home before you pull over to finish,” Sansa teases him.

“Maybe so,” Jon says, grinning. “But good things come to those who wait.”

“Masochist,” Sansa teases.

“You’re just impatient,” Jon returns.

“You just have crazy self-control,” Sansa says. 

Instead of continuing to tease, Jon leans his forehead against hers. “I don’t,” he says finally, as though he’s admitting something painfully embarrassing. “I can never control myself around you.”

Sansa feels something warm unfurl in her chest at his admission. “I like that,” she whispers. And she _does_ , because even though when Joffrey lost control, she’d end up with aches and bruises, it’s different to _Jon._ Jon makes her feel safe when he loses control, gives her everything she wants. She has the marks on her neck to prove it.

His smile is bashful. Shy, almost, which makes Sansa want to giggle. Shyness after what they just did together is _sweet._

Jon is sweet, even when she asks him to kiss her so hard it leaves a mark.

She holds his hand over the gear shift as they drive. She can hear his breathing, slow and careful, and it’s nice. Sansa kind of never wants to leave this car, never wants to leave the boy in it, the boy who kisses her softly when he deposits her at her house. 

“I’d walk you to the door,” Jon says, “but I…” he trails off, and waves his hand vaguely. A quick glance tells Sansa that he’s not as hard as he was earlier, but it’s still pretty obvious. 

Her face floods with heat, but she just pecks him on the cheek swiftly, and tells him, “Think of me.”

Jon meets her eyes, and it always seems to knock her breath away. “I always do,” he says, voice low. “And if you don’t leave now, I’ll never be able to get home.”

Sansa pulls her bookbag on when she leaves, arranges her hair down so she can rush into the house without her parents seeing the hickeys. Not until she sees them. She’s still wet between her legs, and it’s an uncomfortable walk up the steps and onto the porch, but Sansa knows Jon is watching so she makes sure to add a sway into her walk. 

Her heart is pounding when she enters the house, and she’s in the bathroom in under a minute. Her hands shake in anticipation when she flips the light switch, and she catches her breath when she sees herself in the mirror. 

Sansa’s hair is a mess, no matter how much she tried to fix it in the car. When she lifts it off her neck, she sees them; red, littering her skin, seven in total. Slowly, her finger tracks them--one under her jaw, three down her throat, one just above her clavicle, one on the top of her breast, the last in the juncture between her shoulder and neck. She exhales shakily when she presses down on that last one, and for a moment Sansa can feel the phantom of Jon’s mouth there. 

She loves them. She loves knowing that Jon did this for her. 

She has to cover them up now. Sansa doesn’t want to, but her hands find her foundation and cover up, and in a few short minutes the only evidence of tonight is her messy hair and dilated pupils, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She doesn’t _look_ innocent. She doesn’t feel innocent. It’s a delicious secret, and she clutches at the bathroom sink, staring deep into her own eyes. 

She’ll cover them tomorrow for school. All except one. And when Jon sees her in the halls, she’ll let her shirt shift a little. She’ll let him see the hickey he left between her neck and shoulder. Maybe she’ll touch it, with him watching. Maybe she’ll get to see him lose some more of his careful control around her. 

Sansa hopes so.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story please comment/give kudos!


End file.
